Feels Like It's Mine
by Beer Good
Summary: Two unconnected ficlets about Faith's relationship to the Scythe. The first is fun femslash time with Buffy and Faith, the second is dark deathfic with Faith and the biggest baddest of them all.
1. Brazilian

**Title: **Brazilian  
**Author:** Beer Good  
**Timeline:** Few months post-"Chosen"  
**Rating: **R  
**Length: **500  
**Summary: **Needs must.  
**Pairing:** Buffy/Faith.  
**Disclaimer:** I am Joss. I make money off these characters. jungle full of cicadas chirp as everyone stares in disbelief Yeah, I didn't believe it either.

"What the hell are you doing?" Buffy was keeping her voice down so Willow and Kennedy in the neighbouring tent wouldn't hear her, but the shock and moral outrage was in full effect anyway.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Faith calmly splashed some water from the bowl onto her right leg and started on her left, working with Slayer precision.

"Do I really even need to explain what's wrong with this?"

"Not really. That ever stop you before?"

"Faith, the Slayer's scythe was forged in ancient times and passed on to me... uh, I mean _us_ to contain the essence of the Slayer, to be the most powerful weapon in the fight against evil, to chop demons into souvlaki... _not to shave your legs with!_"

"Hey, needs must, you know? If I'd known that hunting down a pack of Mibsnegol demons meant we'd be stuck in this jungle for a month I'd've brought some extra Lady Gillettes, but..." Faith put the scythe aside, splashed some more water on her leg, laid back and stretched it up in front of Buffy. "Pretty smooth, dontchathink?"

Buffy stared just a little too long as the wet leg glistened in the light from the small battery-driven lamp. "That's... not the point. This is the Amazon, not the Hilton, and you'll simply have to get used to roughing it a bit."

Faith suddenly got a mischievous look in her eye and raised her voice. "BUT BUFFY, YOU WERE THE ONE WHO COMPLAINED ABOUT RUG BURN ON YOUR P-"

"Ssssssshhhhh!" Buffy clamped her hand over Faith's mouth, horrified. "Do you _want_ them to hear?"

Faith giggled and bit Buffy's hand just hard enough to free herself. "Well, somebody's gonna have to tell 'em we've been fucking like bunnies for a week... If they ain't figured it out already. Kennedy's got Slayer hearing, remember?"

Buffy looked away, uncomfortable. "Faith, it's not... I mean... i-it's not that I don't want them to know about us, but... this all happened so quickly and I'm not sure if it's just cabin fever and what we'll do when we get back to civilization and air conditioning and..."

That grin again. "BUT BUFFY, THAT'S NOT WHAT YOU SAID LAST NIGHT WHEN WE-"

"Ssssssshhhhh!" Again, Buffy tried to silence Faith, who fended her off easily and got on top, trapping Buffy's waist between her thighs.

"Uh... OK, that _is_ pretty smooth." Buffy put up a nominal struggle.

"You bet. That ancient power's pretty useful." Faith was using her free hand to unbutton Buffy's blouse and make a thorough investigation of what lay beneath.

"You... oh... still need to stop talking, though."

"Make me."

"I've been trying," Buffy pouted as Faith nibbled along her neck. "You never appreciate me for my mind. Sometimes I wonder if you're evil again."

"Hey, ain't my fault if you're getting too old to keep up..."

"Smooth talker." Buffy grinned and rolled Faith over, and the rest was... well, hardly silent, but at least there was no talking.


	2. Good Girls Go To Heaven

**Title: **Good Girls Go To Heaven – Bad Girls Go Anywhere  
**Author:** Beer Good  
**Timeline:** A few years post-"Chosen"  
**Rating: **R  
**Length: **888  
**Summary: **Faith fights another kind of angel.  
**Warning: **Character death  
**Disclaimer:** If man is five, then the devil is six. And if the devil is six, then God is seven. And if God is seven, then Joss is eight. At least when it comes to his characters. 

When it happens, it's in a fraction of a second, too quickly to even know where she slips up. One of the junior Slayers – a 15-year-old called just weeks earlier – is cornered, Faith dives in to take the heat off her and suddenly one of the demons has his entire fucking forearm in her belly, sharp claws shredding her insides to pizza topping and grabbing at her spine from the wrong side. She lops his head off with an arm that seems to work on autopilot, but then the sword falls from her fingers as if they die before she does. Through the fountain of blood she sees B and the others coming to her aid, shouting something she can't hear, but the hard stony ground leaps up and smacks her in the face and her last thought in life is that the undertaker better do a good job on that eyebrow.

* * *

When she wakes up, the heat is the first thing she notices. The air itself – if that is what it is – burns her lungs with every breath. She wants to not breathe but that doesn't seem to be an option. It's almost pitch dark, but the flames (of course there are flames) give just enough light to see by; broken, ragged, black rocks, nothing lives here. The pain kicks in when she tries to move; she winces as she runs her hand across her stomach and it's... not there anymore, just a gaping hole. _Gutted me like a fish..._ If she had any doubts, they're gone now. Nobody survives that. She supposes that if she'd gone to the other place they might have bothered healing her; here it just hurts, but it can't kill her anymore than it already has. 

"NO! No fucking way! I _tried_, damnit!"

Telling the pain to shut up, she makes a fist and pounds at the rock beneath her until the tears are under control. She staggers to her feet before she realizes that she's not alone.

She's surrounded by shadows. Voices whispering all around her, a ghostly chorus of accusations.  
_(You useless little slut)  
(Faith, no)  
(Killer)  
(I made him an offer he couldn't survive)  
(Murderer)  
(Put that away. I'll scream... please)  
(You spat on me)  
(Traitor)  
(No real power here)  
(They'll forever see you as a)  
(Cold-blooded straight up KILLER)_

"Right, so that's the deal, huh? Tormented by the ghosts of Christmas pasts?" She looks around, challenging the darkness to come for her. The voices fade away. "Newsflash: I kicked the First Evil's scrawny ass. I've both been there and done that. What else ya got?"

"Oh... nothing." The new voice is unfamiliar, and yet she recognizes it as it reverberates through the entire... room, cave, whatever this is, making the very air tremble in fear. "Nothing at all, Faith. That's the beauty of it: there's nothing left here."

The shadows part and he steps into her field of vision.

"You gotta be shitting me." The creature towers over her, black horns flaking with age, red fur stinking like death itself rotting, broken black wings hanging uselessly on his back, pitchfork carried with lazy and lethal familiarity. "I never woulda thought I deserved this kind of personal greeting."

He chuckles. "Oh, I make a point of offering personal service. After all, we have nothing but time here. That, and the knowledge that all your trying was for nothing. For people like you, there's no reward, no redemption, no hope, no life. You bought your ticket here the second you strayed, Faith, and all your attempts at atonement, balancing the scales, convincing your little friends that you were one of the good guys now... they were always going to be in vain. You fought for nothing – congratulations: you got it. Any questions?"

"Been rehearsing that speech long, have you?"

Laughter. She gets the distinct feeling he's not taking her seriously. And she decides.

"OK, then, here's a question: you any good with that thing?" She nods at the pitchfork.

He frowns. "Oh, as long as you don't make any trouble, you won't have to find out. I try not to fight unarmed girls, it's so... unseemly."

"Oh, I'm not unarmed. Show me yours..."

She's not sure where it comes from – it's as if it was with her the whole time even though her hands were empty; she reaches _out of_, somehow, grabs it and holds it up for him to see.

"...and I'll show you mine."

The scythe. Of course it's not _the_ scythe, that's still back in the real world. Nah, this is more like this place's version of it, a different incarnation, meaner and sootier, glowing where the other one shines, but still unmistakably _hers_. Her power.

He looks at the tiny girl and her weapon, shaking his head. "I'm sorry... Was I not clear before about the no-hope thing? You _lost_. You fought, you lost, you came here, you're not getting out. You have nothing to fight for. Do I need to draw you a diagram?"

"So... what are you gonna do? Kill me?" Keeping eyecontact, she licks the tip of her middle finger and runs it over the scythe's edge; sharp as ever. "Come on, big boy. Let's get to it."

There's the briefest flicker of confusion in his eyes.

That's all the invitation she needs.

* * *

_She holds out her scythe to Faith. A moment, and Faith takes it. Stabs the guy behind her without looking at him. And then goes apeshit on the fuckers.  
- Joss Whedon, "Chosen" shooting script_


End file.
